


Bumps in the Road

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 10:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13879215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Scenes from an Engagement-- three short follow-ups to various elements in the stories that comprise theAftermathseries (Perfection,Hope Reborn, and yesterday'sBeautiful, respectively) though I believe they can be read as stand-alones, too.Written for Day 2 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Theme:Early Relationship





	Bumps in the Road

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks, once again, to Ellis_Hendricks for beta reading.
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**_ ~ Day Four... _ **

 

“I could get used to this,” Sherlock said, as contented as he’d ever been in his life. 

“Yes,” said Molly, and she squeezed his hand. 

“But we are _not_ naming him Calvin.” 

Molly sighed. 

They were still in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, seated side by side on the porch steps. The early morning air was cool and fresh, the sun shone thin but with the promise of a beautiful spring day, and they were watching their new Basset Hound puppy as he took his first post-breakfast run and sniff around the back garden. 

Sherlock was not one who ordinarily waxed poetic, but the quest they’d undertaken the day before, to fetch the puppy from Anthea’s cousin’s farm in Exmoor, still seemed little short of dreamlike. A chauffeur-driven car had arrived for them about an hour after Sherlock confirmed that he was indeed interested in acquiring the puppy, and Anthea had sent along an agent to serve as cat-sitter for Hobbes as well, Molly having stated that she wouldn’t leave the kitten for so many hours when he’d only just arrived. Sherlock and Molly had had nothing to do but climb in, buckle up, relax, and enjoy the view. 

The journey was a long one, but reason had dictated a temporary cessation of carnal delights in any case. Sherlock had lost track of the number of times they’d made love in the short time they’d been together in the aftermath of Sherrinford and that horrid, blessed phone call, and he had been amazed to find his desire only increased with each encounter. Molly had _not_ been amazed by this, though she’d been extremely pleased and assured him that she felt the same. She also reluctantly admitted to feeling a bit “shagged out”, physically speaking, which admission had filled Sherlock with such a mixture of manly pride and tender sympathy that he should have rolled his eyes in disgust at having become such a cliché. But for once he decided he didn’t give a toss about analysing the particulars of a situation, and was only deeply and sincerely thankful.  

Watching the countryside slip by, they’d conversed in a desultory fashion, and occasionally gave into weariness, in spite of the beauty of the landscape. Molly had napped curled against him, her head pillowed against his shoulder, and it was all he could do not to bend and kiss the top of her head every few minutes. Eventually, he fell asleep, too, and only roused when they’d arrived at a rather idyllic farm not far from the borders of Exmoor National Park. 

They’d managed to rouse themselves and face Anthea’s cousin, a Mrs. Eugenia Trent, with adequate decorum, though if Mrs. Trent had scratched the surface their facade would have crumbled pretty readily. In fact, the woman’s eyes were lit with amusement from her first sight of them, though whether said amusement was the result of unseemly tells on their part or was just her natural expression remained unclear. She was kindness itself, however, and introduced them to the puppy straight away. It was love at first sight (well, second sight, the photo Anthea had sent that morning had pretty much sold Sherlock). After giving a tiny bay at the sight of the strangers he’d trotted over to them behind his parents, two really beautiful prize-winning Bassets named Terry and June. 

Mrs. Trent said, “He was the only boy in the litter, and little girls seemed the order of the day among the buyers that’ve come by. He’s ten weeks, now, and good as gold -- I’ve even started housetraining him a bit. He’s been waiting for you, Mr. Holmes, you see?” 

The latter statement was a comment on the fact that Sherlock had crouched down and the three dogs had come right over, the pup actually trying to jump up and put tiny, slightly muddy paws on Sherlock’s expensively trousered knee. Sherlock chuckled, and carefully picked the puppy up, and then could not help laughing outright as he received a series of enthusiastic puppy kisses as he stood up again, the little dog in his arms. “Yes, yes, you are a fine fellow!” he told the pup, and to Mrs. Trent it was, “I believe you’re right. We’ll take him!.” 

The transaction confirmed, Mrs. Trent had invited them in for _just a bite_ _before that long drive back to London_. The “bite” turned out to be hot tea, sandwiches on homemade bread, and some of the best biscuits Sherlock had ever eaten, casting even Mrs. Hudson’s into the shade. 

The puppy had slept most of the way home. Sherlock and Molly had not. They’d argued, instead, about what to name him. 

“What’s wrong with Calvin?” Molly asked. “Calvin and Hobbes! They go together! And he _looks_ like a Cal.” 

But Sherlock replied, “I hate the name Calvin, the comic strip’s character was named for _John_ Calvin and he was a wretched man with his _predestination_ and _theocracy_. And anyway, I looked it up and it means _little bald one_. I was thinking more along the lines of Hercule.” 

“From Agatha Christie?” Molly considered, but then shook her head. “We could call him Herc for short, but it lacks the crisp consonant at the beginning that will draw his attention when you shout for him. What about Excaliber, with Cal for short? Or Calico -- he is white, black, and tan. Or perhaps Caliban?” 

“Those are ridiculous, and Caliban was a monster! He would have raped Miranda, given half a chance, and _peopled else this isle with Calibans_.” 

“That’s awful!” 

“That’s _Shakespeare!_ ” 

They continued the debate, off and on, clear back to London and Molly’s doorstep. Then, what with the excitement of introducing the puppy to Hobbes (the kitten established dominance in short order, puffing up and hissing fiercely so that little Hercule/Calico/Excaliber ran to Sherlock, yelping), showing the pup his new home, making everyone supper, and getting ready for bed, Sherlock and Molly quite forgot the argument. The pup was _Darling_ or _Sweetheart_ all evening, and when he was finally asleep in the luxurious crate Anthea had provided, Sherlock took Molly to bed again and they were once more lost to the world. 

Now, however, in the clear light of a new day, Sherlock felt that the matter of the puppy’s name needed to be resolved. _Darling_ or _Sweetheart_ would never do long term for a hound destined to be the bane of the criminal class and boon companion to the World’s Only Consulting Detective. 

“I still think Cal is a good nickname,” Molly said. 

“Hercule is better,” Sherlock insisted. “More elegant. And French.” 

“Very well,” said Molly. “Trying calling him. Go on!” 

Sherlock frowned. “You mean summon him by name? Very well.” He cleared his throat a bit, then called out, “ _Hercule!_ ” 

There was no response. The pup continued snuffling about, nose to the ground, apparently finding some fascinating scents in Molly’s neat little garden. 

Sherlock tried again, a little louder. “ _Here, Herc!_ ” 

There was still no response. 

Then Molly sang out, “ _Cal! Here, Cal!_ ” And when the pup jerked his head up and began to run toward them, she burst out laughing, and exclaimed, “Good boy!  What a good doggie!” 

“You must have been practicing with him!” Sherlock accused. 

“Have not!” she asserted, smug. “When would I have had time?” 

“Well, your voice is higher!” But further sulking was cut short as the pup came running to _him_ , rather than Molly, and indicated a desire to be picked up and cuddled. Sherlock complied with a smile, and his discontent vanished entirely under a renewed onslaught of puppy kisses. 

Molly chuckled. “He knows who his new master is.” 

“Certainly he does,” Sherlock agreed, laughing, until he got the pup to settle a bit, though the little dog still gazed up at him adoringly, panting happily. Sherlock was equally smitten, and stroked him, amazed at how soft he was. The thought occurred that this was the first dog he’d ever owned -- but he shoved that dark cloud away. Plenty of time to deal with the past without spoiling the delightful present. Sherlock said to the puppy in a playfully scolding tone, “So, you think you’re a _Cal_ , do you?” But hearing even that slight disapprobation in the voice of his master, the pup immediately laid his ears back, looking uncertain. Sherlock hastily backtracked. “No, no! Everything’s fine! But you _are_ a smart one, aren’t you?”    

And then Molly said, “What about Calbraith?” 

“Calbraith?” Sherlock repeated (idiotically), frowning at her again. 

“Means _British Warrior_.” She cocked her head. “You’re not the only one who can google the meaning of names.” 

“Hmm.” Sherlock actually rather liked the sound of that, though it would be some time before the moniker would really fit. “It’s not bad,” he conceded. 

Molly smiled and, leaning close, she reached over and joined in petting the pup. She said to Sherlock, in a deceptively casual way, “It’s up to you, of course. If you really _like_ Herc…” 

But Sherlock, in the first throes of romance and domestic bliss, thanks to the woman beside him, knew when it was time to give in gracefully. “Apparently this one does not, however,” he said, pouting only a very little, for form’s sake. “Do you, Calbraith?” he asked the pup, stroking the long ears. 

And Molly giggled as Cal took his cue and licked Sherlock’s hand.   

 

**o-o-o**

 

**_ ~ Day Six... _ **

 

“Sherlock, what’s this?” 

Cal and Hobbes, now fast friends, had breakfasted and were curled up together in Cal’s crate, and Sherlock had gone back to bed, too, commandeering all the pillows to ensure his comfort as he went through email on his phone, his cup of tea and a plate of gingernuts on the nightstand beside him. However, he made an effort to look up at his beloved, since she was industriously preparing some of their clothing for delivery to the dry cleaners. 

Apparently including the suit he’d worn to Sherringford. 

And of course, being Molly, she had been checking the pockets. 

He stared at the small metal plaque she was now holding up. The one that said, _I Love You_. 

The sight of it took him right back to the moment when he’d bent to snatch it up from among the debris of the coffin he’d destroyed with his bare hands, John and Mycroft still standing like statues over by the open door as he’d concluded the process of giving himself over to pain and grief and rage. Exhausted, he nevertheless had been determined that _that plaque_ with _those words_ would not be left in _that place_ , exposed to further mockery. 

“Sherlock?” 

He realized he’d been “buffering” as John called it, and, blinking, he raised his eyes to Molly’s face. She was looking worried and puzzled. A little wary. He cleared his throat a bit and then said, with a semblance of calm, “Give it to me, will you, please?” 

She came over immediately and handed it to him, but she also asked him, rather gently, “Is that from the coffin?” 

“Yes,” he replied. The plaque was so small and cool to the touch, which seemed very odd considering… 

But now Molly was sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. “It’s alright, you know.” 

He looked up at her. 

 “I mean…everything’s going to be fine.” She bent and tenderly kissed his lips. 

He set the plaque down on the nightstand beside his cup of tea, and then his hands went to her: warm and vital, slender and _alive_.  “Come back to bed.” He needed her again, needed her close. Closer than close. 

Delight, worry, sympathy… he could read her like a book. “Yes. Alright,” she said, softly. “But you have to share the pillows.” 

And he was able to smile at that. “I will always share the pillows,” he replied, and as he drew her against him he wondered again at the helpless, visceral joy and agony of love.

 

**o-o-o**

 

**_ ~ A Month Later... _ **

 

“Holmes!” 

Sherlock, with Molly on his arm, had been following the restaurant’s hostess back to their table when the vaguely familiar voice sounded and a big, beefy man pushed back his chair and stood up, looking between Sherlock and Molly in surprise. 

“And Molly Hooper! Well, I’ll be damned!” 

 _Bloody hell!_ Sherlock thought, his eyes widening ever so slightly as a jolt of recognition shot through him, though he maintained his mask of insouciance in all other respects. 

It was Glen Harrison, former rugby-playing idiot from Molly’s mid-level organic chemistry class in her first year at uni, the class in which Sherlock, at the tail-end of his graduate studies,  had reluctantly served as a teacher’s assistant. 

“Glen!” Molly smiled a bit uncertainly, glancing between her current fiancé and her former classmate _cum_ perpetrator of bodily assault with a view to attempted rape. Nonetheless, she held out her hand to the bastard, since she had received his apology the Monday after the incident, which apology, true to form, she had accepted. She was far too soft a touch, and always had been. Thankfully for Sherlock’s youthful peace of mind, he’d observed that Molly had enough sense to steer clear of the tosser outside the classroom and, thus reassured, he’d  been able to take leave of that bastion of higher learning and pretty much delete Glen from his Mind Palace without further ado. 

Though not entirely. 

One of his favorite memories of university was the rescue of Molly Hooper, featuring his young dragon-slaying self. He’d utilized some simple moves he’d picked up from associates of Mycroft, and Glen the Great Gawk had dropped like a stone. Molly, who’d been smitten with Sherlock before the incident, was quite awestruck, and the subsequent sojourn along the river as he escorted her back to her room had been very… _pleasant._  

So no, he had not forgotten Glen. Not quite. 

Now Glen was grinning, and said, “Lord, fancy meeting you two here -- the wife and I -- this is my wife, Tiffany, by the way--” 

“How do you do?” Molly murmured, and Sherlock inclined his head very slightly at Tiffany (upper middle-class antecedents, left uni to pursue modeling, whirlwind romance, engagement, marriage, two children, charitable work, garden club, PTA). 

“--we came up to town on business and actually saw the announcement of your engagement in the Times!” 

“Yeees,” said Sherlock, angry at his parents all over again, though they’d at least had the sense not to mention the wedding venue. 

But Glen gleefully nattered on. “And then, of course, it all made sense. Always wondered if consulting detective Holmes was some relation to that Holmes at uni, and there it was, in black and white: _William Sherlock Scott Holmes!_ Good job you kept to William at school -- easy enough to take the piss without something like _Sherlock_ providing ammunition.” 

Sherlock merely glared at the collosal berk.  

And Glen, contrary to expectation, actually took the hint. “Yeah, well, you have to admit it’s an unusual name, and you know how kids are. But anyway, congratulations, you two! God, it’s amazing to see you both again after all these years.” 

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. 

“It _is_ ,” said Molly, with rather a sharp look in Sherlock’s direction. 

He tried to subdue the flutter of dread in his bosom. 

Molly turned back to Glen and his wife. “I do hope you have a wonderful time in London. Where do you live now?” 

“Just outside Brighton,” said Glen. “Look us up next time you’re down there, eh?” 

“That would be lovely,” Molly replied. 

 _When hell freezes over_ , was Sherlock’s reply, but aloud he only said, “Yes, well, must be off, our table’s waiting.” 

“Oh, of course,” said Glen. “Cheers!” 

Sherlock and Molly resumed the journey to their (thankfully secluded) table at the back of the restaurant, Sherlock trying not to panic. The hostess saw them seated and handed them each a menu, and took their order for drinks. 

“I’ll have the Macallan, and make it a double,” said Sherlock. 

“Just a glass of the Pinot Grigio.” Molly smiled until the hostess took herself off. Then she turned, unsmiling, to glare at Sherlock. 

Feeling there was nothing for it, he said, “Soooo… not an extra strong G and T?” 

An angry flush suffused her cheeks. “You _liar!_ ” 

Sherlock sighed, well aware he deserved every bit of her anger and more. 

Molly went on. “That first time we met at Barts: you _did_ remember me from university!” 

“Yes,” he said, simply. 

“Then why… _no!_ Don’t tell me. You wanted my professional expertise without involving yourself in anything involving _sentiment_.” 

“Yes.” 

“And all these years… why, I thought I must be the most forgettable girl alive! That what had been so important to me -- that night… the… the _event_ … _YOU_ … had meant so little to you that you’d completely dismissed the whole thing!” 

“Yes.”’ 

“You _bastard!_ ” 

He sighed again. “Yes.” 

The hostess returned at this point, and Molly composed herself as best she could as their drinks were set on the table. Sherlock picked up his glass of Macallan and tossed back about half of it. 

As soon as the hostess took herself off again, Molly hissed, “Is that all you have to say for yourself? Just _Yes_ , _Yes_ , _Yes_?” 

Sherlock winced. “Would _I’m sorry_ help?” 

She drew herself up. “I don’t believe you’re sorry at all! I think you’d do it again in a minute!” 

“Yes, I probably would,” he admitted. “Under the same circumstances. I mean… before… everything. I never meant to hurt you... but I always do, don’t I? And after a while I… I really did forgot about it. More or less.” 

She looked slightly less angry. However, she said, fuming, “You should be…oh! I don’t know _what_ you deserve!” 

“To be married?” he suggested, hopefully. “So you can hold it over me for the rest of my days?” 

And she gave a chuff of laughter. “Well, there is that.”  She sat back, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you? You’re impossible.” 

He gave a derisive sniff. “Oh, Molly, you’ve known that for years, and yet here we are. You’d better just marry me. That’ll give you all the time in the world to decide what to do with me. Let your imagination run wild. I trust you.” 

As planned, she could not suppress a smile, but there was a glint in her eye as she retorted, “You may just regret those words, Sherlock Holmes.” 

But he dared to smile, now, too. “Never in life, Molly Hooper,” he said, and knew it for God’s own truth. “I leave my fate entirely in your hands.”

 

~.~

 


End file.
